TITLE: Snuff: Angels Lie (PART 03/03)
RATING: FRM
CHARACTER: E. Prentiss / J. Jareau / A. Hotchner
SUMMARY: And the rain begins to pour down on me.
WARNINGS: SPOILERS for 4. 15 - Demonology and 5.13 - Risky Business. Femslash, sexual content, mentions of self-harm.
NOTES: Here's what I think is the finished project. I know it's lame but you're lucky you even got three chapters out of me. I have a very short attention span, and this is why I mostly stick to writing drabbles. :)
I awake heavily, still groggy, and I hear her finishing up in the shower before I even open my eyes. I can smell her scent flowing from the bathroom and filling my sinuses and all I can think about is how that's got to be the most wonderful thing to wake up to. Better than coffee, more powerful than watching the sun peak over the horizon.
Then she's at my bedside, soaking wet in my bathrobe and putting one soft palm to my forehead. I manage to open one of my eyes to look up at her and it takes every ounce of energy I have. She tells me that maybe I should call in sick today and suddenly I bolt upright, startling her, asking for the time.
"It's 6:30," she says.
"Shit," I mumble as I drag myself from beneath the covers which I know she must have placed over me while I was out. "I have to get moving. Hotch wants that report on his desk by eight."
"I think Hotch will understand. Let me take care of it for you," I hear her say but I'm already tearing off my sweat-stained clothes, frantically turning on the shower and fumbling for my black boots and slacks which are buried somewhere in the dark recesses of my walk-in closet.
I unbury them and then turn to see her glaring at me in the doorway of my open closet. I freeze. She's blocking my way intentionally, with one arm propped defensively against the door and the other on its frame. Suddenly I feel very naked and exposed even though I've still got my underwear on, but I self-consciously hold my boots and slacks in front of me like a shield. I feel like a child that knows it's done something wrong and is about to get the lecture from hell. I avert my eyes and I wait. I hate it when she does this, flips the script, turns the tables on me so its her profiling me.
"I think you should call in. You just spent all night puking your guts out, and you look like death warmed over. Besides...we need to talk. You promised."
My eyes turn five shades of fierce when I finally look at her and say a little too roughly, "No...you promised. And anyway, what are you gonna do...call in sick too? I'm pretty sure they're going to put two-and-two together. A gibbon monkey would figure that we're fucking."
Her eyes soften and her body relaxes, her arms dropping defeatedly to her sides. She sighs heavily.
"Tonight?" she asks.
"Tonight, I'm all yours," I reply and then I rush past her to begin my usual morning routine, ignoring the worry-lines on her forehead and the frown at the corners of her lips.
He asks how I am the second I drop the file on his desk. Christ. It's going to be like this all day. But the way his eyes are fixed on me, I know there's some deeper meaning in his question. His tone is asking if I'm going to fall apart tonight; he's asking me if I need a warm body to erase the past and help me disappear. He wants to know why I haven't shown up on his doorstep since that night in Ohio. He doesn't love me the same way she does, I know this, but I also know that he at least cares enough to pretend not to care.
Still, Hotch isn't quietly sympathetic like Rossi or Reid. I don't expect him to be. I feel my jaw tighten but I force a small smile and nod my head.
"You're sleeping okay?" he asks, trying not to sound overly-concerned and failing.
"I slept fine, Aar-Sir...thanks for asking," I say stupidly. I know that was a slip; in his office, he's still my superior. In bed, I'm his.
He looks at me suspiciously and tells me that my eyebrow twitches when I'm lying. I tell him that it just fits the profile. I force another fake smile and then turn around and leave his office so shamefully that it almost looks proud.
It's half past midnight and I'm not entirely shocked to find myself at his apartment door. We aren't meant to be here. It was only a phone call, a late-night request for solace. He lets me in, offers me something to drink which I consume in one gulp, two gulps, three. I should have known it would be a mistake to call him, but he doesn't seem to be complaining now. In fact, now, his lips are floating against my palm like he wants to tell it a secret and he's looking at me with curiosity, a shining child in his eyes. There's also that metaphorical hand touching my heart, grasping that beating organ and staring down into me, begging me to fall. So I do.
"We can't..." he growls from somewhere deep inside his throat, but he doesn't stop. I taste the alcohol on his breath and I delve deeper, wanting to swallow his inebriation. Here he is in the light, I think, and for once, he's waiting for me. We have sex on the couch and then when he moves to press his hand against my spine and through my hair, I pull myself up, begin to dress myself.
"Maybe next time," he says, "you'll actually look at me."
I shake my head as I button up my jeans. "There's not going to be a next time."
And then I leave him on the couch. I forget my shoes and I walk barefoot out onto the street. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The sky breaks open like a loose fist and the rain begins to pour down on me.
I walked in the rain for fifteen minutes with naked feet, mostly just outside her apartment complex. Mostly pacing back and forth along the front steps, and mostly trying to talk myself out of going inside. Now, I stand in front of her door, the entrance that seperates my world from hers, dripping water onto the floor and not really caring. She answers with a look of awe, unsure of how to embrace a soggy me. Also, I imagine, unsure of what to say for the first time since I've known her. She leans against the door and rests her head lazily against its hard surface. She looks at me with unblinking eyes and a shy smile, and I know right then I don't have to worry about her turning me away.
I know that tomorrow will be the same; we'll pretend like we don't even know each other, I'll mechanically bring her cup of coffee to her and I'll leave her office with a smile, knowing she can hardly breathe around me. Then night will fall. And I'll find myself alone in my bed so I'll greedily climb into hers. I know that we'll exchange scars - my abortion and her sister's suicide - and I'll push her away but she'll always welcome me back with a curious smile. Especially when I knock at three in the morning and my hair and clothes are dripping water at her doorstep.
"I couldn't sleep," I tell her softly.
"I know," she replies matter-of-factly, then she takes my hand and leads me inside.
THE END